


A Crown of Camellias Red as Night, Red as Fire, Red as Blood

by Nehszriah



Series: The March of Kasterborous and Gallifrey [4]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, I did my very best to make sure this was not a complete rehash of IWoAH, Magic, Strangers to Lovers, Young Twelfth Doctor, an AU where the Twelve character is played by a 30ish Peter Capaldi, bby!Twelve AU, depictions of war aftermath, lightning doesn't strike twice often but that doesn't mean I cannot try, more a slow-enough burn, nobility au, nobility that actually does something, not-quite a slow burn, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2021-01-04 05:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21192230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: To save her name and her father’s viscounty, Lady Clara Oswald of Blackpoole agrees to an arranged marriage to the long-widowed Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey. Handsome and quiet and looks that betray his years, his eyes are not for her, and instead are focused on preparing the lands for his death against Dalek invaders. Yet fate works in mysterious ways, and little ever goes as planned...[a Young Twelfth Doctor nobility/arranged marriage AU - alternate version of In Want of An Heir]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The following is going to be something I had begun back in September 2016, but was only able to get partway done. What is it, you ask? Well, sort of an AU of an arranged marriage AU; aka: In Want of An Heir, Young Twelve Edition. So as you read, keep in mind a roughly late 1980s/early 1990s Peter Capaldi (more around Lair of the White Worm or Soft Top, Hard Shoulder) instead of the mid 2010s version that Twelve actually is. There is absolutely nothing wrong with his age as Twelve, but we have the resources to do what-ifs, so why squander it?

“Papa, _why_ are you doing this?!” the young woman hissed. She was pacing her father’s study, fuming over the news he had just broken to her, her skirts spinning wildly with every turn. “I am your only child—Blackpoole is _mine_ to inherit! What else have I been _doing_ otherwise?! Learning how to run the viscounty for fun?!”

“Clara, this upsets me as much as it does you,” the Viscount sighed dejectedly. “We are going to the capitol tomorrow and when we get there, you will be married. If I could avoid it, I would, but…”

“…then _avoid it_,” she demanded. “Papa, this is not the way we should discuss my wedding day. Is this another plot of your wife’s?”

“No, but I wish it were; things would be easier to swallow that way,” he frowned. “The serdars, lesser lords, and high-ranking businessmen have been pressing me to find a male heir or risk being tossed from the seat of our forefathers. I’ve been able to hold them off for this long, but after that dalliance with the soldier…”

“_Daniel_, Papa. His name is _Daniel_.”

“I’m sorry, darling, truly.” The Viscount stood and came out from behind his desk, coming face-to-face with his grown daughter. “I wouldn’t have minded Daniel, I can assure you of that, but there are forces in play that have made the move for me that neither of us can control. Please come with me to the capitol and consent to the union, before you become a social pariah and none will even look at you, even for an opinion.” He took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. “I know the Marquis—his father was a good man—and the borderlands are a place where you can be free of this scandal, where they do not care for courtly gossip.”

“…but how is it a scandal if you would have welcomed Daniel as your son? I’m as maiden as they come… don’t you trust me?”

“I do, but I’m not the one you have to convince,” he said. The Viscount took his daughter in his arms and hugged her, choking back tears as she began to shed some of her own. “You are such a brave, good girl, my Clara. Nothing will ever change that.”

“Thanks, Papa,” she sobbed. Her stomach lurched in nerves—neither of them had any choice, or her father would have found a way already.

* * *

A week later and Clara met her prospective groom on the wedding platform. The Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey was very handsome; tall and lean, with curly brown hair and lidded grey-blue eyes that gazed upon her respectfully. He was quiet though—nearly morose—and those eyes, though pretty, did not shine like her paramour’s had. When she slid the ring on his finger towards the end of the ceremony, it fit perfectly where one had sat before, where one had been placed over fifteen years prior. She had been barely a teen still, when she both heard the news of his first marriage and quick transition to widowhood, and it seemed a miracle that he come out of mourning blacks for the day’s occasion.

The wedding feast was a grand one, and eventually the new couple was ushered towards a bedchamber. When they were finally alone, the Marquis looked his new bride in the eyes for the first time since the ceremony.

“I do not judge you,” he said lowly, his far-northern accent burring smoothly. “Your father wrote to me about the situation you were in and offered this union as a solution for both our problems: yours a lack of a husband and mine the lack of an heir. The fact Viscount Blackpoole had you trained to succeed him makes this a better match than you realize—I must make sure you know your value is beyond anything that the Season has led you to believe.”

“Thank you…?” the bride replied. She watched as he stripped back the bedding and held out his hand.

“Please,” he insisted. She placed her hand in his and watched him unsheathe the ceremonial knife from his belt. Furrowing his brow in concentration, he punctured her skin within a fold, enough to draw a few drops of blood without slicing open her entire palm.

“Is this a Kasterborsian tradition?” she wondered cautiously. Her husband shook his head.

“The party in the hall is expecting me to take your maidenhood, which oftentimes means blood,” he explained, beginning to undress. “Whether you’re maiden or not is none of my concern; spread that where you will lie tonight. If asked, you can truthfully say I caused that blood and no one will be the wiser.”

“…but there won’t be a child,” she mentioned. When the blood was completely soaked into the sheet, she turned back, seeing he was down to his trousers. “Won’t people be suspicious?”

“Plenty of women take years to conceive and carry a child to birth—the people will simply say we need to keep trying.” Once he was completely naked, he undressed her mechanically, not paying attention to her womanly features in the slightest. “Now I’ve disrobed you and made you bleed—get some rest, for the road to Gallifrey is a long one.”

She watched as he went around to the other side of the bed and laid down, covering himself with the blankets. He went to sleep almost immediately, leaving her nothing to do but go to bed as well.

‘_Maybe a political marriage won’t be that bad_,’ she thought, staring at the bed canopy. Her husband began snoring softly, reminding her that there really was someone else in the bed with her despite their bodies not touching. ‘_He didn’t force himself upon me and he doesn’t seem to care for it. This might be the worst it becomes_.’ She sucked at the puncture in her hand, making sure the bleeding had stopped, before fully settling down and allowing sleep to take her.

* * *

The following morning was a busy one for the Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey and his new Marchioness. After the King saw the stained wedding bed and declared the marriage complete, there was a long line of well-wishers and a long road ahead of them as they made their way towards the northern borderlands, where the Marchioness was to now call home. It was difficult, yet the Marchioness did not cry when she hugged her father goodbye. They exchanged sorrowful looks, understanding that this was far from perfect in either of their worlds, and he helped her into the carriage that was to take her to Gallifrey. He shook his son-in-law’s hand before the couple left, taking them off in the early afternoon to get a good start on their travels.

“Are you well?” the Marquis wondered, looking at his new wife. They were sitting across from one another, with her staring out the window.

“I shall be,” she claimed. She withdrew inside herself, mentally preparing for what was likely to be a lengthy ride ahead towards a life away from everyone and everything she loved. What she didn’t expect, however, was her husband sitting next to her, placing an arm around her waist. He leaned down and murmured in her ear.

“I have no plan on having you bear my heir, because _you_ are my heir,” he said. “With the way I am fighting potential invaders, it is likely I will die within the next few years, leaving you to inherit my lands, wed whatever paramour you’ve kept in that time, and found a new dynasty the moment I am laid in the earth.”

She turned her head and stared at him. His eyes spoke the truth, meaning it _was_ likely she would be an incredibly powerful woman in her own right sooner rather than later. She wedged her face between him and the back of the seat, hiding her words.

“Are _you_ well?”

“Well enough to wed, but not enough to betray my hearts.”

She leaned back and examined his face. Anyone who was to spy into the carriage would see a married couple, whispering sweet nothings at one another. This… this was nothing of the sort in reality, and was confusing more than anything.

“I think I understand, milord.”

“_Johan_,” he corrected. “My name is Johan, and I expect you use it. You are no longer a viscount’s daughter, but a _marchioness_, second only to His Lord Highness the King. We are equals now; please treat me as such.”

“Thank you, _Johan_.” She settled her head against his shoulder, taking solace in the fact he was still there. He took hold of his cape and draped it across his body, enough so that he could wrap her up in it as well. The fabric was warm and comfortable, reassuring her that everything was going to be fine.

* * *

As the trip progressed, the Marchioness found her new husband seemed to grow increasingly quiet the closer they were to Gallifrey. He would share warmth with her at night and hold her during the day should she need it, yet he talked little and divulged even less about himself as they passed through the march’s many hills and valleys and glens. By the time they had Gallifrey in their sights, he had returned to his blacks, she had finished two novels, and the newlyweds had barely spoken with one another.

“Why is the sky so red?” she wondered aloud, gazing out the carriage window at the violet sunset. “I thought it was simply the light from our camp against low clouds, but that’s not the case, is it?”

“At night, the sky turns red due to an atmospheric condition that our scientists are still trying to make sense of,” he explained. “Our winter festival is centered around the day dominated by the violet twilight, while the summer festival celebrates a violet night. They, as many things you shall find here, predate the march and earldom’s association with the kingdom.”

“That sounds lovely,” she said. They entered the City of Gallifrey, an earldom in its own right and the capital of the March of Kasterborous. Castle Gallifrey towered over the other buildings, a blue stone monolith protectively watching over the smaller buildings of stone, wood, and plaster. When they rolled into the yard near the stables, the Marquis helped the Marchioness out of the carriage, but within the moment it took for her to glance up at the stars glistening in the reddening night sky, he vanished, leaving a middle-aged woman to approach her.

“Hello—you must be Clara,” she said, smiling kindly. Her accent was nearly like the Marquis’s, yet a touch different. “I’m Serdaressa Pond, but you can call me Amelia. I’ve been running the house here since Johan was a young lad. If he gives you _any_ trouble, let me know and I’ll set him straight.”

“Thank you, but Johan has been a proper gentleman, and he gives the impression that’s not going to change soon,” the Marchioness replied. The Serdaressa offered her arm and she took it, allowing her to escort her through her new home.

After a bath and clothes not reeking of the road, the Marchioness joined the Serdaressa for dinner, the Marquis nowhere to be found. The Serdaressa shrugged it off, claiming it was him merely catching up on work, and quickly changed the subject. Dinner continued with the older woman dodging questions and giving half-answers. It made the Marchioness suspicious, though she didn’t pry much further than a redirected topic. She’d learn everything eventually, so she merely sipped her wine and went along with the Serdaressa’s conversation.

That night, however, when she was left alone in her chambers, the Marchioness became curious. She peeked through the door that led to the Marquis’s room and quickly glanced around. Her husband was not there, which emboldened her, and she walked in, the only light being from the moon hanging in the red sky. It appeared to be an average enough space, with no sign of the regular occupant having been in there since his return. A small portrait sat on the nightstand, piquing her interest, as it appeared to be that of a young woman. She was about to pick it up when she heard steps in the corridor and she fled back to her room in a panic.

‘_Never again_,’ she thought, climbing into her bed. It was warm and soft, enveloping her in comfort that she had missed while on the road. She fell asleep nearly immediately, thoughts of her quiet husband and the mysterious serdaressa in control of her mind while she drifted off.

* * *

It wasn’t until breakfast did the Marchioness have some answers, as well as some more questions to add to her list.

She was sitting in the dining room, eating with the Serdaressa, when the Marquis came in. He took his fill of food from the buffet along the wall and sat down at the small table, giving the Serdaressa a kiss to the cheek as he did so.

“Good morning, Mama,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” she replied.

“Then how about you, Clara?” he asked. The Marquis looked across the table to see that his wife’s eyes were nearly as wide as the plates on the table. “What…?”

“I didn’t know Amelia is your _mother_,” she gaped.

“Mother-_in-law_,” the Serdaressa corrected. “Our Johan had been betrothed to my daughter, Melody, from the time they were small. He has always been like a son to me and the marriage made it official. Her death changed nothing concerning that.”

“Oh… I’m sorry,” the Marchioness said.

“Don’t be—it’s in the past,” the Serdaressa said. “Now you’re here, and we can keep moving forward.” She glanced over at the Marquis, who was quietly eating his breakfast. “Isn’t that right, Johan? You remarried to put the past behind us.”

He didn’t answer, continuing to eat in silence. His mother-in-law fumed, though she did not press the matter. She left immediately after she was done and the newlyweds were alone, an expanse of table between them.

“You must forgive Mama,” the Marquis said eventually as he finished off his tea. “She tries, but it’s clear to me that she hasn’t been the same since we became the only two left in the family.”

“It doesn’t help that you’re rather brusque,” she fired back. “Your wife died, but that was her _daughter_.”

“_Don’t_ lecture me about whom and what we have lost,” he growled, making her jump in surprise. “Now we have half an hour left before the work day begins; report to the public office by then.” He stood and stormed from the room, his cape billowing out behind him.

The Marchioness slammed her hands on the table. “The _nerve_,” she hissed. She too left the room in a huff, headed back towards the private wing she and her new family occupied. If the Marquis going to be that insensitive, he was going to have to drag her down to the offices by her hair. She nearly went into her chambers when she heard the noise of the Serdaressa crying a few doors down. Deciding to investigate, she gently knocked on the ajar door, poking her head in to see the older woman jump.

“Are you alright?” the Marchioness wondered. The Serdaressa glanced at her, face nearly red as her hair, and nodded. She patted the cushion on the settee next to her and her new daughter-in-law sat.

“I’m not usually this weepy,” she claimed, dabbing at her eyes with a kerchief. “Putting the past aside and moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting—that silly boy thinks I mean to forget everyone we lost. Rory would never forgive me…”

“Rory…?”

“My husband; he had been ill for most of Melody’s life by the time she was married, and we knew he would likely have only a year as a grandfather at most,” the Serdaressa explained. “Rory was a soldiers’ nurse—it’s how he gained a sedarship—and caught something while working that slowly ate away at him.” She glanced over at her daughter-in-law, nearly baffled. “You mean that you don’t know anything about our family other than that they’re all gone?”

“Considering how long it took to come to terms with my own mother’s death, I figured it would be brought up eventually,” the Marchioness replied. She held the Serdaressa’s hand in solidarity, letting her know she understood. “So his name was Rory…”

“Yes; a doting father and a loving husband, even if we did have ups and downs. No one ever thought we were going to last.” She laughed weakly, recalling a memory from long ago, before turning her attention back on the Marchioness. “That was the past though—Rory and Melody, Johan’s parents Troy and River, none of them would want us to dwell on them while there’s still life to live, others to take care of… others to welcome.”

“Thank you, truly.”

“…though speaking of welcoming new members of the family, how hard are you and Johan working at having children?” the Serdaressa asked, attempting to contain herself. The Marchioness stared back at her with wide, confused eyes. “What…?”

“Amelia… Johan and I aren’t having children,” she said. “I’m maiden and am only here in case he dies on the front. My line will be my own, fathered by whatever paramour I take, and he asks is that I make sure to not hide things from him.” A heavy silence fell between them, which made the Marchioness feel awkward. “You didn’t know that, did you?”

“No, I did not,” the Serdaressa replied quietly. She then forced herself to smile and accept the situation for the time being—her son-in-law would have to answer to his stupidity, but now was not the time. “Then do you have someone in mind? Johan’s children would probably all be a bunch of arrogant, over-dramatic idiots anyhow.”

The two women talked until the Marquis sent for his wife, after which she reported to the offices, yet refused to interact with him except on a need-to basis. It seemed to affect him, as by the end of the day both the Marchioness and the Serdaressa had arrangements of yellow rue in their chambers, with the former a single dahlia in a stem-vase next to her bed. It was a start, she supposed, as she laid down to go to sleep, though even in the morning there were no words exchanged on the matter.

* * *

Sitting in their private office, the Marchioness took in the two young people before the Marquis and her. One was a woman, with dark, heavy brows and a raven on her shoulder, and the other was man with brown skin and a slim build. They bowed deeply to her, pledging their allegiance.

“These are our main assistants,” the Marquis explained. “Ashildr Valka is from the hinterlands and an excellent mind with law, while Kester Riggins is from the Bristol area. He came to Gallifrey as a child and never wanted to leave; his work is more specialized in being a surrogate for when our appearances outnumber us and to be an even-opinioned ear.”

“We are here to serve you, milady,” the man said assuringly. “Please, call me Rigsy.”

“…and do not hesitate to call me Ashildr,” the woman added. “I apologize for not introducing ourselves earlier, but there was in issue on the Cyberan front while his lordship was preparing for your marriage and we had to deal with it. We returned only just this morning.”

“Thank you,” the Marchioness said. She fidgeted slightly and stared at the raven. “Is your bird tame?”

“I have had him since I was a teen and he does my bidding,” Ashildr claimed. “He is a bird of high intellect, even amongst his fellow ravens, and is an excellent courier.”

“Will he deliver things to me?”

“Yes, milady,” she nodded. She allowed the bird to hop to her hand and held him out towards the Marchioness. “Please pet him so that he may know you.”

Reaching out, the Marchioness went and gently scratched the bird’s beak. “He’s a majestic creature.”

“Thank you, milady.”

“Now I need to sit in a meeting with a couple heads of guilds,” the Marquis mentioned. He patted his wife’s shoulder before adjusting his cape. “Ashildr, with me, please.”

“Yes, milord,” she replied. Ashildr took her bird and followed the Marquis, leaving the Marchioness and Rigsy alone.

“It’s alright, milady—it’s a creepy bird,” Rigsy said. The Marchioness giggled at that, laughing behind her hand.

“Glad I’m not the only one,” she agreed. “Sit, tell me about yourself; I’ll get to Miss Valka later.”

“Thank you, milady.” He sat down on the other side of the table, folding his hands atop the papers spread across the wooden surface. “It’s like his lordship said: I’m from Bristol, but I came here as a youngster and never left.”

“Never felt like going home?” she wondered.

“On occasion, but I don’t have any family now that my aunt has passed, so there’s more for me here anyhow,” he explained. “Besides, my wife’s family is all here and I want our daughter to know her cousins.”

“You have a little girl?”

“Six months next week.” Rigsy beamed proudly, blushing slightly in the process. “I know all parents say it about their child, but she’s a bright one… I can tell.”

“I’m sure she is,” the Marchioness chuckled. She glanced at the door and frowned. “My husband… how does he act around you? When it’s just you?”

“The same as how he acts around anyone, I assume,” he shrugged. “He’s quiet, distant; you know why.” Rigsy studied the Marchioness’s face, curious as to why she would ask such a thing. “May I please ask a wildly impertinent and personal question, milady?”

“Go on.”

“I didn’t think His Lordship as this sort of man, but…” He paused, shifting uncomfortably. “He’s not… cruel to you, is he? When it’s just the two of you?”

“No; he is cruel the way he is towards everyone else, by being distant, as you said,” she assured him. “I rather like the fact you asked that—shows you’d rather be a decent person than loyal to someone with ill intentions.”

“A friend of mine while in the Gallifreyan College was in a relationship like that,” he confessed. “Her girlfriend was an awful person, but only when they were alone. I’m just glad the cycle’s not continuing elsewhere.” Rigsy then cleared his throat, sitting up in his chair a bit straighter, before changing topics. “So, my Doctor, what do we have on the agenda for today?”

“Doctor…? I am not a medical physician…”

“Technically you are the Doctor’s Companion, but I know His Lordship well enough to know you don’t plan on having children together,” Rigsy explained. He saw the confused expression had not left his liege lady’s face, at which he knew there was more that needed clarification. “My father-in-law explained it like this: back when this was wilder land—before the castle and the idea of a march—the area was ruled by warring chieftains and their clans. Some were good, some were bad, as in any system of government, yet the main thing was that they were _inconsistent_. The only _consistent_ ones were physicians, doctors, and their assistants who traveled with them. They tried to be helpful and wise and eventually held more respect than the chieftains. To be _the Doctor_ is to be the highest authority in the land, King or no King, and that is why I refer to you as such.”

“I’m glad you told me now, instead of me discovering in front of smallfolk and stammering through the realization,” she replied grouchily.

“Didn’t you and His Lordship discuss things on your way back from the capitol?”

“Barely—just that I am his heir and equal. I mostly read the entire ride here.” She watched as Rigsy smacked his forehead in irritation. “It’s that bad, isn’t it?”

“You’re already clever enough to be the Doctor,” he replied, “and it’s now our job to make certain nothing stops you from getting the rest of the way there.”

* * *

The Marchioness was unsure which was more fun: planning a ball to make her new husband suffer or watching his reaction to her request for his list of preferred acquaintances.

“I do _not_ host society balls,” he nearly gasped. He turned his look of horror across the breakfast table and pleaded with the Serdaressa. “Mama—_please_ tell Clara I don’t host balls.”

“_You’ve_ never hosted a society function in your life, but that doesn’t mean you can’t start now that you have married again, and to a woman who is aware that others exist,” the Serdaressa grinned. “There hasn’t been a proper event here since your father was alive.”

“…and I am _not_ my father…”

“Clearly,” the Marchioness cut in, “though that still doesn’t change the fact that I am going to host a society ball, and you cannot stop me because I am your equal… you said so yourself.”

“I can perfectly well stop you if it means saving not only the taxpayers’ coin, but my sanity as well.”

“…except, as droll as it may seem, a polite relationship with noble neighbors and key people within the kingdom’s elite shall prove more beneficial to the march in the long-run,” the Marchioness stated. “Despite your opinions on what high society is supposed to think, if you convince them that Kasterborous is a place where laughter and gaiety can happen, then they will be more generous in their future support with provisions and troops when our numbers need bolstering. The ball _shall_ happen and I want to know if there’s anyone specifically whom you want to be invited or uninvited before I send out the letters.”

The Marquis sat silently for a moment, contemplating his tea, before muttering out, “Braxos.”

“…pardon?”

“Psi, Earl Braxos; his wife used to act on the stage and being around her makes others cringe. Invite them,” he replied, slightly clearer.

“Psimon and Johan would occasionally play as children,” the Serdaressa added, mindful to leave out her daughter’s name. “I think they would naturally be at the top of the list, whether Saibhra was an actress or a princess.”

“If that’s the case, then they can dine with us, maybe arrive early or stay late if they so wish,” the Marchioness nodded. She paused as the door to the breakfast room opened and her assistants walked in. “Ashildr, Rigsy, you agree with me that a society ball after the Spring thaw is a good idea, yes?”

“Leave me out of it,” Rigsy declared, holding his hands up in surrender despite the fact there were papers in both.

“I think it is an excellent idea, milady,” Ashildr agreed almost cheerily. Her liege lord sank into his seat, utterly defeated.

If it were not for the old friend that was being invited, as well as the months he had to prepare, the Marquis simply _knew_ that the oncoming ball would be the death of him. He took the papers from Rigsy and quickly followed him out of the room in order to avoid further planning for what was sure to be a useless event.

* * *

The soldiers were all standing at attention, silently allowing the Marquis and Marchioness’s inspection. Unbeknownst to them, their new liege lady was woefully reminded of her former paramour by their presence—her former paramour and their decision to not find one another again for the foreseeable future.

“As you can see, the Kasterborsian Border Forces have some of the best men and women Gallifrey and the Northern Lands have to offer in terms of soldiering might,” the Marquis stated. “Most of our troops are trained in the local military Academy—we boast an excellent Officer’s Program and stellar Infantry training—and the remainder comes from either our College or the surrounding areas.”

“We have a devoted people, that is for certain,” the Marchioness agreed. She walked down the front line of her army, slightly in awe of the fact that, well, _she commanded an army_. It was well beyond what she thought she would have been doing a year prior; it was impressive, and something she could definitely use to her advantage when she next had the displeasure of talking with her father’s wife.

Before the Marchioness could ask another question, a faint whistling noise wafted through the air, spooking the soldiers from their stance. She was protectively enveloped by her husband’s cape as he brought her close to his chest, swearing in a tongue she did not know as something exploded nearby.

“You! Take the Marchioness and guard her with your lives!” he commanded. The Marquis pushed his wife towards some nearby soldiers and drew the sword at his belt, turning towards the nearby wood. Smoke and fire preceded their creators, creating an ominous, tense air about the encampment.

“Come, milady,” one of the soldiers requested. He picked her up by the waist and legs, dutifully carrying her away from the wood and towards where her horse was whinnying in panic. The soldier then helped her mount the steed, while a second fetched more horses.

“I can’t leave without His Lordship!” the Marchioness insisted.

“You wear a blade, but you cannot use it yet,” a third soldier said bluntly as she mounted a horse. “I have no doubt you shall one day handle weapons with the best of them, yet our job now is to make sure you live long enough to practice. Let’s ride!”

The woman soldier and the Marchioness both went ahead of the two men, riding hard until they were a safe distance from the camp. They were dismounting the horses when the men caught up, the one who had carried the Marchioness having slumped forward with an arrow in his back.

“Leela, why are you going on-foot?!” the other soldier scolded. “We should be making haste for Gallifrey—Paternoster at the very least!”

“You go if you wish; I’m going to hide Her Ladyship properly,” the soldier now known as Leela said. “Take Tomas back to the medical tents. I’ve got things here.”

“She’s worth ten, milady,” the mounted soldier stated sourly. He then took hold of the other horse’s reins and ushered both him and his comrade away, while the Marchioness was whisked away into the wood.

“You have to excuse Calib, milady,” Leela said as they navigated the underbrush. She took the lead, attempting to make as light a trail as possible. “He is a soldier, but he hasn’t the heart for it.”

“How so?”

“There is a weariness to him, milady; Officer’s Heart, is what we call it,” the soldier explained. “His Lordship has it and it wears away at them both, though Calib has only just contracted it. Soldiers both want to serve a man with Officer’s Heart, but they don’t, because they know what guilts weigh on their shoulders.”

“Let me guess: His Lordship has been suffering from his since Her Previous Ladyship’s death?” the Marchioness supposed. Leela glanced back at her, a knowing grin upon her face.

“Her Current Ladyship is clever,” she replied. Movement caught her eye and she stepped behind the Marchioness, drawing her sword. Two Dalek soldiers had followed them into the wood on foot and were now staring at the noblewoman as they prepared for close combat.

Taking the opportunity, Leela charged while they were still plotting, taking both on at once. The one was near her match at the sword, meaning the other was able to slip by her and approach the Marchioness.

“YOU SHALL COME WITH US,” the Dalek declared. “THE ALLFATHER DAVROS COULD USE A NEW HANDMAIDEN, AND HIS NEMISIS’S BRIDE WOULD BE AN EXCELLENT CHOICE.”

“Not on my watch,” the Marchioness growled. She struggled with the knife at her belt, almost panicking as the enemy soldier came closer. Just as he was about to pounce on her, she freed the knife from its sheath and stabbed him in the gut, right above his metal-studded leather kilt. He fell, face contorted in shock, and quickly died. Not even a moment later and his comrade was slain as well, with Leela flicking the blood off her blade with a deft twitch of her wrist.

“We need to leave, and quickly,” she said. The soldier came up to her liege lady and admired her handiwork. “As much of a spitfire Her Previous Ladyship was, I doubt she could have done that. We’ll make a soldier and commander out of you yet, milady.” She pulled her along and they went deeper into the wood, determined to not be found again.

Violet twilight settled in and Leela and the Marchioness began the long trek back to the camp. Patches of tents were smoldering, burnt to the ground, while people still moved about quickly in a sense of urgency to clean up what the Daleks had made into a mess. Leela escorted her charge to the Marquis’s tent, allowing the Marchioness to enter on her own.

While she had no inclination to believe that a tent by the Daleki border was going to be luxurious, the Marchioness was almost startled by the plainness of what she knew was going to be her lodgings for the night. The worn and muddy rugs carpeting the floor were the only decorative clue that it was not merely a meeting tent. In the corner, a fire crackled happily in a pit, tended to by the Marquis himself. Still carrying the day’s battle on him, he turned to look and see who it was intruding, only for his eyes to bulge and his glare melt into confusion.

“Cla…?”

“Johan,” she replied, approaching her husband with caution. He edged away as she knelt down next to him, examining the remnants of the battle he still wore. Dried blood and mud stained his clothes, with bruises welling up on his forearms, only visible from the fact his jacket was off and his shirtsleeves rolled up a little ways. His bent knees were shaky and his back was hunched in exhaustion. “Here, let me…”

“_No_,” he insisted. “Don’t bother yourself—I don’t deserve your care.”

“Don’t deserve…?” she blinked at him in surprise. “How many others here would have their wives or husbands here besides them in a heartbeat?”

“The good ones; I am not a good man, Clara. I took lives today. Soldiers died under my command. I do not deserve—”

“Yes you do,” she huffed, smacking him gently on the back of the head. “Despite the fact we have not properly bedded one another, you are my husband, and from what I can tell, you _are_ a good man. Bad men don’t contemplate the dead as you… besides, I’m not all that good either.” She took the knife from her belt and presented the blade to him, still stained from action. “I had never seen a Dalek until today; it was rubbish, as far as first impressions go.”

For that instant, the Marquis _knew_ what had happened and brought his wife towards him in an embrace meant not only to comfort her, but him as well. They then helped one another undress and clean up, making sure that scratches and bruises gained from the day’s events were not noteworthy enough to summon a physician. That night was the first of many they spent laying in one another’s arms, sharing the bed not only out of pretense and appearances as they normally would, but to assure each other that things were going to be alright.

They were still good, no matter what came their way.

* * *

Both Marquis and Marchioness were met by the Serdaressa in the stableyard upon their return to Gallifrey. She wept openly as she hugged them both, having heard news of the attack before that of their safety. A fist to her son-in-law’s shoulder and she was scolding him profusely over his recklessness and lack of consideration for his wife’s well-being. The Serdaressa remained cross at him even through dinner, finally apologizing for her ire before retiring for the evening. She had already lost one daughter—losing another might have finally brought her to her husband’s side once more in the earth.

That night, as the Marchioness was headed for her bed, she noticed the door between her room and her husband’s was opened, with the Marquis standing sheepishly in it. He had tried laying in his own bed, yet could not find rest without her arms wrapped around him. She laughed at his blushing face and suggested that he join her.

Settling himself within his wife’s grasp, the Marquis felt a sort of ease wash over him, comforted by the Marchioness’s hands on his chest and her body snug against his. She was still there, she was safe, and she didn’t hate him. It was one of the better feelings he had experienced in a while and it was something he did not want to end.

* * *

“Take it off.”

The Marquis looked at his wife, his eyes widening slightly. All he had done was enter her chambers so they could go over their plans for the day ahead. “What…?”

“You heard what I said: take off those clothes and change into something more cheery,” she requested. “I had been hoping that you had more normal clothes hiding somewhere, but you don’t. Go back to your wardrobe and change into something less depressing.”

“I am not depressing,” he insisted.

“They call you ‘_the Black Spectre_’ because you look like a bloody ghost in mourning,” she noted. “You are getting new clothes and the majority of your blacks mothballed.”

“Says who?!”

“Says my dowry—now get back in there while I go and summon the seamstress.”

“We have important things to do today, Clara,” he stated.

“Paperwork and things we can send Rigsy to, nothing more. We can argue about this all day if need be.”

“You cannot take that attitude if you are going to be a respected Doctor.”

“Maybe the people shall respect me if they see that I am not allowing their liege lord to continue moping like a sullen teenager?” she posed. “I shall strip you myself if I have to.”

At that, the Marquis retreated to his quarters, slamming the door behind him. He remained dressed, yet stared out the window as he waited for the seamstress’s arrival. The woman arrived via the Marchioness’s chambers, with the lady in question right behind her.

“Her Ladyship informs me you need new clothes, Your Lordship?” the seamstress asked, her voice filled with confusion. “I thought I just put together a couple new sets last…”

“You are correct; my wardrobe is fine,” he replied.

“Johan, you are being childish,” the Marchioness huffed. “What are you going to wear to the ball, for instance?”

“That is months away yet, after the thaw.”

“It requires the host to not be dressed for his dead wife whilst his living one conducts business,” she said. Her words settled uncomfortably over the room until he exhaled heavily and began to unbutton his collar.

“Fine,” he muttered. He took off his jacket, shirt, and trousers, allowing the seamstress to measure him in his stocking and underthings. It was only a formality thanks to his recent sets of blacks, though it was one that allowed his wife to bask in her victory.

“Contour the leg a little more,” the Marchioness requested. “It is a style in the capitol now—I want him to look _good_. Oh, and get him two more cloaks if you can manage. Black is acceptable, yet he wears them so often they should have variety as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the seamstress nodded, jotting down the notes on her writing pad. She finished with the measurements and gave a curtsey before leaving, promising to have the first set by the following morning.

“I hope you are happy,” the Marquis scowled. He noticed that she was watching as he put his blacks back on, seeing the disapproval on her face. “What…?”

“How do you think it feels, to be married to someone who cannot even see what is in front of them?” she said. Her words cut him deeply, forcing him to realize another reason for her actions. “Look at me, Johan. _See me_. I’m not a ghost nor are you still married to one. At least _try_ to act like it before you commit suicide out on the front—_try_ to act as though it’s not a constant dirge around here—it’ll make things easier for the transition.”

“…I never…”

“Just give me that dignity, alright?” she snapped. “If my father could come out of blacks for a marriage to a _harpy_, one he only went through to make sure Blackpoole didn’t _crumble beneath his feet_, then you, at the very least, can give me the same amount of respect while you ease me into becoming your heir. You owe me that much.”

Without giving him time to retort, the Marchioness left the room for her own quarters, with it being her turn to slam the door. After staring at his own reflection for a moment, the Marquis left his trousers and shirt on, leaving his jacket draped over the back of a chair. He brought the blue one he wore at their wedding out of the wardrobe and pulled it on. Buttoning it up slowly, he observed himself in the mirror, his heart sinking.

“She’s correct: I owe her that much,” he said aloud. He finished fastening his coat and went to his bedside table, picking up a small portrait. The woman in the frame was silent and supportive, staring back at him from what felt like so long ago. “Her spirit reminds me of you, in a way. That fire in your eyes—I see something similar in her. She shall serve the march and earldom well.”

The portrait did not respond, nor did the Marquis expect as such. He replaced it and went for his cloak—black as soot until the seamstress delivered a new one—and made his way through the castle to breakfast. No one was there, though there was only one plate remaining. It was penance for being so difficult, he imagined, and went about his breakfast as per usual.

* * *

Morning came again and the Marquis remained in his quarters until the first of his new garments arrived, not emerging until after he had fit them. There was not a scrap of black on him save for his boots, instead donning deep blue and striking red. His cloak was made from crimson velvet, surrounding him in rich, plush fabric that ignited a fire deep in the Marchioness’s gut as she watched him walk into the governance hall. She knew from the moment she saw her bride on the wedding platform that he was going to be a handsome husband, yet this pleasantly exceeded her expectations and the awed stares at them both fueled her. He sat in his chair atop the dais and opened court the same as ever, yet was all the more terrifying in his new clothes.

Even Lady Amelia approved, claiming later on she had not seen her son-in-law looking so stately and bright in over a decade. She congratulated her, then thanked her, for doing in one argument what she could not in several years. They both then went to the seamstress’s and gave _her_ compliments on her handiwork.

The Black Spectre was in mourning blacks no more.


	2. Chapter 2

Autumn arrived and change came alongside it. Trees ignited in a dazzling array of reds, oranges, yellows, and purples; the air strengthened with a newfound chill; rain moved in and made to stay, at least sprinkling a few drops a day for three weeks straight.

“Good to know there’s a place more miserable than Blackpoole this time of year,” the Marchioness muttered. She glared out the window at the weather, though was soon distracted by the cawing of Ashildr’s raven.

“At least we have had pokings of sun throughout the month,” Ashildr said idly. It was the two of them in the office, trapped by the rain that was falling outside. “There have been years where we do not see sun from the first turned leaf until well after the Violet Sky.”

“That makes you sound so old,” the Marchioness said through half a giggle. She then glanced over at Ashildr, who wore a blank expression. “Wait… how old _are_ you?”

“Forty-three; Ancient Gallifrey runs strong in my veins, as with many people in your new home, and that blood is long-lived and slow to age. I appear younger than you, yet I reasonably could have occupied this office the longest of our number. His Lordship has the same blood in him; why else would he look close to your age despite being nine years older? It is not entirely a younger countenance, soon to be hit with many years of ageing at once.”

The Marchioness stared at Ashildr, unsure of how to react. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, only to finally exhale when Rigsy and the Marquis came into the room, the former looking wary as the latter held a babe in his arm.

“Clara, look at this brilliant tiny human,” the Marquis beamed, presenting her the child. “It is Riggins’s daughter.”

“I apologize, milady,” Rigsy said. “I had no choice but to bring Lucy with me today. My wife is ill and…”

“Don’t apologize,” the Marchioness gently ordered. She attempted to peek in on the girl, yet the child retreated further underneath the Marquis’s cozy cloak. While the outside of the cloak was a deep, dark, stiff blue, the inner lining was a soft red that made the babe coo in happiness. “Oh yes, my dear, I do not blame you. His Lordship _does_ have a rather nice cloak.”

“I find this rather inappropriate, if I may,” Ashildr said from her desk. “The child is an unnecessary distraction.”

“I believe she is rather necessary,” the Marquis corrected. He made certain the child was covered well—the only bit of her showing being her tiny brown nose poking out for air—before turning his full attention to his assistant. “You have simply allowed misfortune to sour you.”

“As though you are one to talk.”

“One must be kind, especially to those who come after us,” he said icily. He watched in silence as Ashildr stood and walked out of the office, her raven hopping from its perch and following her before the door shut. “I apologize, Clara, but she no longer cares for children.”

“How can one ‘_no longer_’ care for children? Either one does or they do not.”

“That is not for us to say, milady,” Rigsy frowned. He lifted the Marquis’s cloak just enough so he could see that his daughter was now sleeping soundly. “She is attached to you, milord.”

“That is part of _why_ she is such a brilliant wee thing; she understands more than most many times her age,” the Marquis preened. He then saw his wife’s near-puzzled expression and frowned. “Clara? What is wrong?”

“Ashildr and I were talking before you came in and she mentioned that she has the blood of Ancient Gallifrey in her and that is why her looks are nowhere near her age. Is this true?”

“Yes, it is,” he affirmed. “From the hinterlands to the Castle, there are those with greying hair and bending backs that shall outlive you and Riggins both even if you have long, full lives. I look more what my age is normally because widowhood has not been gentle, yet I am still younger than her. By all accounts, I should appear more twenty-four or twenty-five for an average person, which seems laughable considering my age.” He gently bounced the concealed lump in his arm, patting the hidden child on her back. “Young Lucy here comes from a similar background as Ashildr thanks to her mama, does she not?”

“She does,” Rigsy said. “You know, it still feels odd knowing that you are nearing forty, milord. If I didn’t know better, I would say you were merely a few weeks past thirty.”

“Thirty-seven is not ‘_nearing forty_’ just yet,” the Marquis bristled. He sat down at his desk and began to work one-handed, holding the sleeping babe securely whilst he found the papers he left the afternoon before. “I believe we have work to do.”

Rigsy and the Marchioness exchanged amused looks—it was best to let this particular subject drop if they were going to get anywhere that morning. They went to their desks and began on their daily work, both stealing glances at the Marquis and his impromptu charge as the day went on.

As she observed her husband and the child, however, the Marchioness found herself growing increasingly drawn to the Marquis, the fire she felt from seeing him in clothes more fitting his status flaring up again. She attempted to quell it—he was a deft hand at keeping the child quiet and amused, that was for certain—yet she also knew deep down that his hearts did not yearn as hers and it was foolish to believe otherwise. It was nearly a waste in her mind, though at least she was not the one doing the wasting. She returned to her work and attempted to concentrate, no matter how difficult her husband was going to make it.

* * *

Whilst the Marchioness received many letters during the months she had been in her station, there were few that she seemed to enjoy reading, and even fewer that she seemed to dread. There was one letter she received during a breakfast soon after the first flakes flew that encompassed both, starting off with a wistful gaze and quickly devolving into wide eyes and a spoon dropped into her porridge.

“Clara? What’s wrong?” The Serdaressa placed her own spoon down and waited for the woman across the table to look up from the letter at her. A couple moments passed as she kicked her son-in-law’s boot, stealing his attention from the newspaper.

“Ow! What’s that for?”

“Your wife is upset—take care of her.”

“She is…?”

“For stars’ sake, _look at her_.” He did, though turned his attention back and shrugged. “You’re an idiot.”

“_Mama_…”

“I’m… I don’t feel well,” the Marchioness said quietly. She stood and left the room before either of her tablemates could react, taking the letter with her. The serdaressa pointed in the direction of the door and scowled at the young man before her.

“Go, now, or I will make certain she is your successor _this afternoon_ instead of whenever it is a Dalek finally gets the best of you,” she growled. When he opened his mouth to protest, an intensified glare ended his words before he could even speak them. “_Now_, and stop acting like a child about it. She is your wife, friend, and coworker. Do _not_ leave her alone, whatever that news was.”

Giving in to his mother-in-law’s will, the Marquis stood to prove his intent, finished off his eggs, and went off in search of the Marchioness. She was not in their chambers, nor anywhere else in the private wing, leading him to scour the remainder of the castle for her. He eventually found her in a sitting room tucked away in high tower, looking out the window over the city and earldom below and the march even further out.

“Clara? What’s the matter?” He approached her cautiously, despite her calm demeanor. “What news did you receive? Is everything alright in Blackpoole?”

“The letter was not from Blackpoole,” she replied. She waited until he sat on the couch, facing her, before she turned her attention fully towards him. “It was from the capitol.”

“Is your father there?”

“It was not my father, but the reason my father brokered our marriage.” She glanced down at the papers in her hand and exhaled heavily. “Daniel and I have kept in touch via letters, making the time apart bearable. We agreed to allow our hearts to wander if that what is to be, yet…”

“…he has already found someone, while you have yet to look,” he realized. Her silence was all the confirmation he required. “Oh Clara… Clara, Clara, Clara… come here.” He fluffed out his cape and wrapped her in it as she moved closer to him. “Is that better? I know this room is rather drafty.”

“Yeah,” she replied quietly. The Marquis raised an eyebrow as she leaned into him, shivering against his warm body.

“You never thought this would happen, did you?” he asked. She shook her head against his chest. “I’ll be honest: you seem to be taking this rather well.”

“I am happy for him, truly, it’s just… happiness shouldn’t hurt this much.”

“This is correct, though you shall find your own happiness soon enough,” he said. “You are a brilliant woman; the fact people no one is tripping over themselves to court you yet is the most confounding thing.”

“It is because they know they’d have to pass my husband’s standards, which they are not up to,” the Marchioness chuckled weakly.

“_My standards?_ It is the lady herself who has the highest standards in the lands.” They both shared a laugh, knowing that it was true. “Tell me about Daniel and his new paramour—what has he told you?”

“She is a member of the medical branch of the King’s Army, and they were stationed together for a time soon after we parted ways,” she explained. “Her name is Martha and she is from around here, funnily enough. He wants to know if I would be comfortable with the two of them moving to Kasterborous once their service to His Highness is complete in a year or two.”

“Then let them, and we can invite them to our table to show no ill will,” he suggested. “Maybe you can stay in the capitol during the Season and meet with them then—we will have been wed a year at that point, and you can test the waters.”

“No; there is _no way_ I am looking for someone to court during that mess of a cattle auction,” she grumbled. “I’m not that easy. Maybe there shall be someone to court during recesses of important meetings with His Highness, but not when people are showing off their supposed wealth and power.”

“I never said anything about you being _easy_, my dear,” he smirked. He rested his chin upon her head as she moved in closer—it _was_ cold in there. “We’ll figure something out. It’s not like we have all of winter to decide how to go about things.”

“We do, don’t we?”

“Well… more than the winter. You don’t have to find someone just yet if you don’t want to.”

“Good.” She exhaled as she shifted to wrap her arms around his waist, holding him close. “We have to cuddle in your cape more often.”

“We are not cuddling; I am against cuddling.”

“Then what is this?” He then became extra-conscious of how they were: she was nearly sitting in his lap and somehow his arm had found its way around her shoulders, which caused him to go very red. “Don’t worry; I won’t tell Amelia.”

“If you do then it’s the first carriage back to Blackpoole for you.”

“She doesn’t need to tell me.” The two glanced towards the door and saw the Serdaressa standing there, a cheeky grin upon her lips. “Just kiss already.”

“Maybe some other time,” the Marchioness laughed. She disentangled herself from her husband and walked over towards their mother-in-law, throwing the Marquis a flirtatious wink on her way. “We don’t want to overload him too much, do we now?”

“N-No…” he replied weakly, watching as the two women left the room. He sat there, alone, with the ghost of his wife’s warmth against him trapped inside his cloak. Gazing out the window, he watched as flecks of snow danced their way across the lavender-grey sky.

What the stars was that?

* * *

It all began during a private session of court, where the public was not admitted. Lesser lords and serdars answered the summons from the Marquis and Marchioness’s office, for the winter months were for planning, and sometimes planning involved not being only half-heard as ideas were traded about in their infancy.

“I have been asked in my halls about your father’s cousins, milord,” a serdar claimed. The Marquis kept his hands folded atop the large table all twenty-five were sat around, lordly stoic.

“What about? Are the smallfolk really that curious over corpses that have been rotten nearly two-score years?”

“They are curious about if they truly are dead or not,” the serdar shrugged. “Word has persisted that they might still live—what should I say?”

“There is no evidence that His Lordship has other relatives, and the branch you are referring to are either too old to still be alive or their graves lie far beyond the march’s borders,” the Marchioness cut in. Her husband remained silent; she could handle it and prove her knowledge of recent historical Gallifreyan politics to the voles in the room. “Surely those are the ones you mean, not any mysterious and distant maternal ones, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you can reassure those in your halls that Faolan the False’s only child perished at sea after producing no issue, and that even had Faolan lived through the storm himself, he would be close to two hundred years old and by all accounts in a grave of his own.”

“Milady?” another serdar piped up timidly. He was young and newly made by the King not yet two years back. “May I ask a foolish question?”

“You have yet to ask such a thing; I would say the odds are with you,” she assured. “What is it?”

“Who was this Faolan the False?”

“His lordship’s great-uncle, his grandfather’s twin, and he craved the governance chair despite his brother being the one who was groomed to take it. He grew jealous and bitter and nearly killed the Tenth Doctor, though his mechanizations did not succeed thanks to an old friend finding him in time. Faolan and his wife were mercifully banished and their child born outside the march’s borders, though all three died in a sea storm decades ago.”

“Things might be different if I knew my cousins,” the Marquis added. “I do not, however, so we remember, though do not dwell on what could have been.” He turned back towards the first serdar, his lord’s mask firm. “Is that sufficient?”

“Yes, milord,” he replied. “I shall reiterate to the marchers in my halls that your hearts have not wavered, that your dedication to your positon should quell any uncertainties.”

“…as funny as it seems that His Lordship has a heart, let alone two,” Rigsy joked from his spot to the Marchioness’s right. Everyone smirked at that, except the Marquis, who merely leaned forward to peer around his wife at the culprit.

“One as a normal person, and one for the people and lands I govern—what humor do you find in that?”

“You have long been a severe man, milord,” a baroness mentioned. “It has been good to see you soften these past few months.”

“I have not,” he scowled, nearly insulted. “Why is Ashildr not here? She would defend me.”

“It is nothing that requires defending,” the Marchioness insisted. She placed her hand upon his right arm, lending him her presence for stability. “Now, how about we get back to the meeting proper? I believe we were about to discuss the refortification of Karn and how much is needed there.”

“Yes, you are correct,” he said. He cleared his throat and grabbed at papers set out in front of him, glad for the segue in conversation. “Karn; what is the situation?”

* * *

“Are you broken?”

The Marchioness glanced up from her work, looking at her husband across the room. They were alone in their office, at their separate desks in a way that allowed them to face one another. His face was puzzled, though she was unsure as to why.

“No…?” she replied. “What brought you to that conclusion?”

“I haven’t seen that face before,” he explained. “Slight head-tilt to the right, pursed lips, narrowed eyes, one wrinkle in your brow; it’s not a usual face.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were taking notes on my facial expressions,” she deadpanned. “I was just reading.”

“Reading what?”

“About the precedent surrounding this complaint from the hinterlands regarding pasture ownership,” she said. “It’s written here that the dispute was ultimately solved with a magic duel.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No—you’ve told me about the ancient magic—it is simply that it is one thing knowing that it used to exist openly long ago, and another seeing the practical solutions and their contexts, applying them theoretically to a current issue.”

“If you were to go to the disputed area tomorrow and it was suggested they solve their differences through a duel, would you allow it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“We are no longer in the Seventh Doctor’s tenure, first off, and I would need to be able to moderate, which I cannot being as I don’t know how to do such things as _magic_.”

“I can teach you,” he blurted out. “You’re already beginning to pick up on some basic Gallifreyan, which is the first step in learning the Ancient Gallifreyans’ ways. A Doctor needs to know her people’s culture, after all.”

“I thought there was a reason why magic fell out of favor: it was too powerful.”

“It can be, though it can be benign all the same. Don’t listen to those with less of Gallifrey in their veins than the average traveler from the Capitol.”

“Oh? Prove it.”

The Marquis smirked and held out his hand, palm open towards the ceiling. “_L__éas_,” he said, before gently blowing air from his lips. Golden dust formed on his breath and swirled above his palm, delicately coming together to form a leaf, which flitted across the room and onto the Marchioness’s desk. As it landed, it dissipated into a puff, nothing remaining of the spell.

“Show-off,” she scoffed, though could not help but smile. “Maybe tomorrow we can fit in a lesson—we can make it a date, even.”

“I’d like to see anyone beat that,” he replied smugly.

* * *

The City and Earldom of Gallifrey began to buzz with excitement as the slow Spring thaw melted the white and grey landscapes and frostings to reveal the green and brown underneath. A ball was coming, unlike any had seen in decades, and there was much to do to prepare. Streets were swept, monstrous amounts of food and drink were ordered, and there were plenty of mental preparations being done for when the highborn guests began to file their way into the city walls.

“It feels odd,” Psimon, Earl Braxos, said as he stared out the window. He and his wife, Saibhra, were sitting with the Marchioness for tea, taking a slow afternoon as they waited for the ball to occur in a week’s time. Their early arrival was part of the Marquis’s concessions, though he himself was finalizing the temporary stoppage of governance and therefore was not with them.

“It shan’t for long,” the Marchioness replied. “By the end of your stay, I hope we feel like old friends.”

“Maybe for the two of us, but you have to remember that our husbands have been friends since they were children,” the Earlessa reminded her. She sipped her tea and shrugged. “That was well before my time.”

“At least that is another thing we share,” the Marchioness nodded. The two of them were within a year’s distance in age and she was glad for it. That did not mean, however, that she was willing to drop conversation then and there, as she also had a motive. “Psi?”

“Hmm?”

“What was Melody like?”

The Earl blinked, his attention turning towards his hostess.

“What…?”

“Speaking of old friends, would you be able to tell me what kind of a person Melody was? How was Johan like when she was still alive? What were _they_ like?”

“I’m not entirely certain you want to hear what you are asking for…”

“No, I know what I want and am asking precisely what you think I mean: tell me about my husband and his first wife. I don’t want to ask him or Amelia just yet and resurface any bad memories, but I also am curious.”

The Earl paused, reflecting on that, before letting out a weak chuckle. “They were perfect.” He looked out the window again, watching the city below. “Johan and Melody were best friends, and when the best friends were told they were promised to one another, they were able to fall in love all the same. You can imagine how intense the love was if it kept Our Johan in mourning blacks until recently.”

“I was under that sort of impression,” the Marchioness said. She stared into her tea before taking a sip, during which she noticed the Earlessa staring at her. “Yes?”

“Clara, are _you_ fond of Johan?”

“What would make you say that? He’s an idiot.”

“So is Psi, and yet I am gladly married to him.”

“I’m right here, you know,” the Earl frowned.

“We are aware,” the Earlessa replied, patting his knee. “Clara, if Johan asked to court you, would you accept?”

“He wouldn’t; he is still mourning Melody.”

“Say he wasn’t anymore; would you consider it?”

“Saibhra, you know the man we’re talking about, right?” the Marchioness said. “He’s rude and arrogant and has set himself into so many ways since becoming a widow that it is impossible to see him divested from that mindset. He is a rather difficult man to even be married to, and I imagine more so to court.”

“…_but would you_…?”

She thought about it for a moment before nodding her head once. “I’d consider it. Whether we pursue one another or not, he remains a handsome bride for my arm; I cannot deny that.”

“A bride on your arm and a bride in your bed are two separate matters,” the Earlessa said frankly. Her husband choked on his tea and placed his cup down on the table, mortified.

“I am not hearing this.”

“Nor did you ever,” she warned. “No tattling.”

“As though I’d want to.” The Earl stood and smoothed out his jacket, making certain there were no errant biscuit crumbs. “I wonder if the gardener has kept the same blooms as in years prior or if there have been changes.”

“Then take your walk and find out, while we have some girl talk,” his wife said. He did wander out the room, allowing the Earlessa and Marchioness to roll their eyes at one another.

“I hear you used to act, correct?” the Marchioness asked after a sip of tea. “Does it help your position in Braxos or does it not matter? Either way I am impressed by the career shift.”

“I can see a liar when they decide to attempt to fool me, though that is more recognizing arrogance than acting methods,” she shrugged. “People thought I wouldn’t know how to behave in a courtly setting, but isn’t that only all of acting right there?”

“You’d think, but we do live in an odd society, don’t we?” She poured both her and her guest some more tea and leaned back in her chair, resting her cup so that the steam wafted up into her nose. “We need to visit with one another more often, if only to get some like-minded conversation every once in a while.”

“Like-minded? I think you mean _sane_; admit it.”

All the Marchioness needed to confirm was smile.

* * *

“_Hold still_,” the Serdaressa insisted in the ceremonial tongue. The Marquis grunted and complied, reluctantly allowing his mother-in-law to fuss over his hair and jacket. They were both dressed finely in preparation for the society ball that was mere minutes away.

“I’m not a _child_, Mama,” he complained. “I’m not about to go out and dance with Melody for everyone’s entertainment as I did when I was _six_—I can take care of myself.”

“No, you obviously cannot, since you wouldn’t even be attending if it wasn’t for Clara and me demanding it. How do you think it would look if the Marchioness Kasterborous and Gallifrey, not even in her station a year, hosted a ball and her husband refused to show himself? It would send all the wrong messages.”

“…which are…?”

“…that you don’t really care about Clara or me, worse: that you don’t really care about the guests,” she scolded. “Now get a move on; people should start arriving any moment now.”

“Remind me after this I deserve a nice, long vacation, somewhere things make sense… like the Daleki Front,” he scowled.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Try me.”

Irritated, the Serdaressa hit the Marquis’s shoulder and ushered him from the room. The Marchioness was waiting for them in the corridor, donning a red dress that matched her husband’s cloak and the tiara of Companions Past in place atop her hair.

“You were right to want to coordinate,” she noted. The three began the walk towards the ballroom, the liege lord and lady walking in-arms. “I have noticed that is one of your favorite cloaks.”

“They are all well-used.”

“You look good in it—don’t squander that.”

“You gave it to me and I squander none of your gifts.”

“Stop with the flirting; we’re almost there,” the Serdaressa sniped gently. Her son-in-law glared at her as she gave a smirk back—she was unapologetic and she was fine with that.

As the Marquis, Marchioness, and Serdaressa went through the mass of lords and ladies that were milling about the great dining hall, tending to their guests, the latter noticed something about the former two. She saw them steal glances at one another, their eyes laughing and filled with what she could almost decode as desire. Smiling to herself, she hoped that there was more there than she was even reading and that she would be pleasantly surprised in the months to come, with special announcements and embarrassed admittances. It was only a matter of time, she knew, and then the family could continue to grow and be happy once again.

Dinner was soon served, and after dinner there was dancing. Everyone made their way from the grand dining hall towards the governance hall, where musicians sat upon the bare dais and played idly whilst waiting for the host and hostess to open the floor. They did so with a flourish, the entire hall watching them as they twirled around the hall. Others joined in for the next dance, and the next, and soon even those who only had a scant idea of their hosts’ situation were intrigued by the length at which they danced with one another.

A moment of silence passed and the orchestra began yet another song, the steps to which were well known as not being for a man and a woman to dance together. The Marchioness found the Earlessa Braxos and the two chatted as they made their way around the room; this allowed their husbands the opportunity to find a glass each as well as a wall with which to linger.

“They get on so well—it makes me glad,” the Earl chuckled. “I was afraid that when you remarried with no one else around that it was because you were marrying a beast you wished to hide away as in some lurid novel.”

“Clara is anything but a beast,” the Marquis nodded. He took a sip from his drink and watched their wives dance. “At least now Saibhra has a spare dance partner for when neither of us can be bothered. Things are much easier now that Clara is around—you honestly have no idea, Psi.”

“Yes, I do have an idea, and now you can finally get back to living,” the Earl stated. When he heard no answer from his friend, he glanced over at him, seeing that he was merely watching the two women and nothing else. No… he was watching _the Marchioness_. “Johan, why _did_ you agree to marry Clara?”

“Her father needed to prevent a societal disaster and I required an heir—our marriage fulfills both objectives.”

“What…? You never mentioned anything about her being worldly outside of a society marriage. Was she not a maiden when you wed her?”

“On the contrary: she still is.”

“Stars, Johan; you better have a good reason as to why you are not bedding your wife nightly.”

The Marquis watched as the dance continued, paying attention to the way the Marchioness’s dress flared out and her hair moved as she spun around. “I married her because I knew that Oswald would have given his daughter nothing but the finest education in land management and other noble duties. Blackpoole might have scoffed at her, yet I know better. Her talents are far beyond most and the past few months have proven that my gamble has paid off. She is a quick mind and a quicker wit—Kasterborous and Gallifrey shall be in good hands.”

“Not this again,” the Earl scowled. “You’re such a bloody self-imposed martyr that you can’t even realize you haven’t taken your eyes off her the entire night.”

“I have not.”

“Yes, you have! You’re still staring at her!”

“I am monitoring the party.”

Braxos simply shook his head. “Don’t lie to me—I haven’t seen you look like that in years.”

“Look like what?”

“As though you’re about to drag your wife into a hidden room and make up for lost time by allowing her to take you for everything you can offer,” the Earl deadpanned. “For stars’ sake, Johan, go romance your wife. That’s how most people go about making proper heirs.”

“I’m not meant for her,” the Marquis muttered sourly. “She was promised all of Kasterborous and Gallifrey for herself—I cannot deny her that now.”

“She already has Kasterborous and Gallifrey,” the Earl pointed out. “You are being silly; there is no need for you to waste away, pining in solitude, whilst Clara is right there. Melody would not want—”

“_You do not know what Melody would want_,” the Marquis growled. He fluffed his cape and stormed off, not caring who saw him as he retreated to Castle Gallifrey’s private corridors.

Shutting the door hard behind him, he sat at the table beside the window, slumping over onto the smooth wooden surface and hiding his face in his arms. Realization was hitting hard, proving to his embarrassment that his friend had to point out the entire situation, spelling it plainly. Tears overcame him and he began to sob—things were not supposed to be this way. The pain was not supposed to be this real and the desire had never been planned upon. He shivered in agony as the front of his trousers hardened whilst his thoughts refused to stray from the recipient of his affections; how did she reawaken such emotions in him? Earl Braxos now knew, which meant it was only a matter of time before…

A hand rested on the Marquis’s shoulder and he twitched back in surprise, nearly jumping out of his chair. After blinking away the tears, he saw the Marchioness standing in the red moonlight, her hand outstretched to where he had been just moments before. Her eyes were wide and confused, larger and rounder than he had ever seen.

“Johan…?” she whispered. “Are you alright?”

“Leave me alone,” he requested. He looked away, burying his face in his elbow, only to feel her hands rest against his knee. She leaned against his leg, staring up at him as she knelt at his side.

“What happened?” she wondered. He did not answer. “Don’t tell me it is the ball getting on your nerves…”

“No,” he croaked out.

“Then why did you leave so suddenly? Our guests deserve some sort of explanation when they realize that you are no longer down there with them.”

“Tell them that I have fallen ill.”

“Is that one of the Doctor’s lies?”

“…not entirely.” He sat upright and kept his gaze away from his wife, instead taking in the stars hanging in the blood-red sky. “There is a sickness in me that I cannot shake—I thought it would pass, yet I have now realized it has long ago set in and that it only grows stronger with each passing day.”

“A sickness…?” The Marchioness stared at her husband in the moonlight—aside from the tears that stained his face and eyes, he seemed the image of health. “What sort of sickness?”

“One I thought I would never experience again, that I truly thought I was immune to until earlier this evening,” he claimed. Only then did he then look at her, his hearts in pain at the sight of her concern. He took her hand in both of his and brought it to his lips, kissing the tips of her fingers tenderly before pressing another kiss to her knuckles, drinking in the sight of her as he did so.

“Johan…” she breathed in surprise. “When did this happen?”

“I am unsure.”

She stood and held his face in her hands, wiping away his tears with her thumbs. “You are an idiot, you know that?” She bent down and kissed his forehead before burying her nose in his hair. “It’s just a good thing you are _my idiot_.”

At that, he slid from the chair to the floor, kneeling at his wife’s feet. He looked up at her, his eyes beginning to water yet again.

“It hurts,” he whispered. “Why does it hurt so much?”

“You are a good man, or at least you try to be, and that is why,” she explained. She stroked his hair and gazed at him adoringly. “Let me make the appropriate excuses and finish off the ball; stay here and calm yourself in the meantime. You are no good to me a weepy mess.”

“As my liege lady commands,” he replied. She then left the room, giving him the opportunity to reflect in silence. A wary maid brought him tea and his confused mother-in-law checked in, leaving after barely accepting a half-hearted lie, all while he sat brooding by the window. He looked at the stars and wondered when it was he first felt such things over his wife; they had not sown affection, nor had they known one another for barely a year. The prospect was terrifying.

Eventually, the Marchioness returned, having closed the ball and sent guests both away and to their rooms. She silently crossed the bedchamber and put one arm around her husband’s shoulder whilst she used her other hand to tilt his chin towards her.

“Let’s take this slow,” she said, her voice slightly roughed from the ball. “We shall not bed each other, though I shall still sleep with you in my arms tonight. How does that sound?”

“Like beyond anything I deserve,” he replied.

Smiling in satisfaction, she took her hand from his chin to the clasp of his cloak, unlatching it so that the garment fell and draped itself atop the chair. She gingerly sat on his lap as she moved to the buttons of his jacket, exposing neck, then shirt, for only her eyes to see. Once done, she eased the jacket off his shoulders and leaned in to whisper huskily in his ear,

“Show me what you are hiding.”

Obligingly, the Marquis stood and began to peel away his outer layers, exposing himself for her. Boots, shirt, undershirt, trousers, stockings, undertrousers; it all went until it was finally just him. He stood there bare for her for the first time since their wedding night, though with a vulnerability that was entirely brand new. She stepped forward and put her hands on his chest, staring up at him cautiously.

“I am not looking for a pretty young man to seduce,” she warned him. “I want to flirt with a mountain range; steadfast, difficult, and just a bit dangerous. If you wish to be my paramour, if you wish to court me, then you must know that I do not compromise, not on this.”

“Then you shall have it,” he promised. He brushed his fingertips along the side of her face, trembling as he took off her tiara and placed it on the table. “This no longer fits you.”

“If not, then what does?”

“A proper coronet, fit for the Doctor.”

“…but you are the Doctor…”

“…as are you—that much has long been proven—and you shall share my title soon as I can manage.” A chill ran through him and his expression turned bashful. “May I put on my nightdress?”

“You may.”

She watched as he covered himself, his ears, neck, and face going pink with blush. Instead of teasing him, she took his hand and led him into her quarters, guiding him towards the bed. After he was sitting, she kissed his forehead and backed away, keeping their eyes locked the entire time. A few quick tugs at the laces on her dress and it pooled at her feet. She stepped out of her dress and shoes, taking care of her corset, stockings, and underthings as she moved forward. The Marchioness allowed her husband to view her in profile as she went into the peony-laden bedside table to fetch her own nightdress, which she pulled over her head with one deft motion.

“How did you not look like that on our wedding night?” the Marquis wondered quietly. He complied as he was gently eased down onto the mattress and covered in blankets, with his wife joining him from the other side of the bed.

“Easy: you did not see _me_, nor did I see _you_,” she reminded him. “We saw the means to other goals when we were with one another that night. Now…” She eased him on his side and pressed herself up against his back, hugging him close. “Go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And so they did.

* * *

The following morning, the Marquis woke slowly, feeling the most content he had been in a long, long while. He was in his wife’s bed, facing the window as the violet dawn was giving way to blue skies. Shifting, he found that he was alone, rumpled bedding being the only sign that another had even been there. Sitting on the other pillow was a note, however, which he unfolded and read.

“_Johan_,” it read.

“_Stay in and take a late morning, to give credence to our excuse from last night. Staff has strict instructions to let you be aside from leaving some breakfast by the fire. I see now that this ball has been incredibly hard on you; maybe next time things shall be better._

“_Yours, Clara_”

The Marquis smiled at the note, folding it back up and carrying it with him as he left the bed and plodded through the door that brought him to his chambers. A tray with toast, jam, some bacon, tea, and a single gardenia blossom in a stem vase sat out near the fire, which was warming the room finely. He changed from his nightdress to proper trousers and a jacket, rereading the note again and again as he pulled on his boots and cloak. Once he had read through it ten times he set it next to the portrait on the mantle for safekeeping; he was about to eat and did not want it dirtied.

“_Eirigh_,” he said as he placed his hand along the teapot’s side. Golden dust swirled around the container and soon his tea was hot again. He poured himself a cup and began to pace around the room, going over what would still need to be done in his mind. There was cleaning up from the ball—reverting the governance hall to its normal setting, the storage of all the extra dining ware, finding of all the nooks and crannies that now required tidying—and the dispersal of guests. Once all that was done, extra pay would need to be administered to the varying clerks and other staff members who halted their duties to become temporary help elsewhere in the castle cooking and cleaning, not to mention the bonuses for those who were _regularly_ cooking and cleaning for all the additional tasks they had undertaken; and after _then_…

Suddenly, the Marquis stopped his pacing and placed his cup and saucer down on the table. He glanced around the room, attempting to find the source of the presence he now felt. It grew stronger as he approached the mantelpiece yet again, with him realizing what it was almost immediately.

“Oh, Melody, forgive me,” he sighed, picking up the portrait. “My love for you has not waned, but Psi is correct, funny as that seems. I have grown a desire for Clara without damaging what I had with you, and I have realized that to follow you into the earth now would mean not even attempting to honor your memory. She has become my second chance.” He replaced it, face-down, allowing his hand to linger before letting go. “I finally see now what Mama has been telling me all these years. She has taken such good care of me; it’s about time I begin to listen.”

He went to his tea and picked it up again, resuming his breakfast contently. There was much to consider now—he had _the future_ to look forward to for the first time in years—and it felt almost novel, in a way.

“Clara, my Clara,” he said guiltlessly to the empty room. “I am ready to begin moving forward.”

* * *

Rigsy noticed a change in his liege lord and lady not long after the societal ball that brought many from elsewhere in the kingdom. Despite the fact that his employers had wed for practical purposes, little things began to happen that signaled a change in them both. A touch of a hand here, a long gaze there, and there was even a lingering hug—a **_hug!_**—that the Marchioness gave the Marquis from behind one day as he was at his work. The act sparked hope in the man, making him wonder if his daughter would have a playmate sooner rather than later. To have the governance of Kasterborous and Gallifrey be shared by a pair besotted with one another could only mean great things for the future, so he kept his words to himself, quietly observing the first signs of romance so as to not spoil them.

This did not mean, however, that all else who noticed were as pleased as he…


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …aaand we’re done! If you want to check out more things, please take a browse of my tumblr, FFN, or AO3 accounts!

It was Daleks that took him away. They had attacked a Kasterborsian stronghold with more might than they ever had in the past, threatening to break through the border and pillage the hinterlands. A courier had delivered the news during an outdoors lunch, where her lord and lady had been eating with their counsel and mother-in-law.

“I shall return in a fortnight at the earliest,” the Marquis said as he mounted his horse. Ashildr was already sitting astride another horse, ready to take off soon as her lord was ready. “Keep a close watch on the horizon—an inordinate amount of smoke and you shall need to initiate invasion protocols.”

“Invasion hasn’t been possible since well before Troy was a child,” the Serdaressa frowned.

“Mama, Clara, Rigsy, I am counting on you to prepare accordingly, yet not panic the people,” he replied. He bent down and took his wife’s hand in his, kissing her knuckles. “Take care.”

“If you love me in any way, you’ll come back,” she stated. It wasn’t a request or an observation, but an order, firm and resolute. Their gazes met and they wordlessly agreed; there would be no compromise.

A snap of the reins and a click of his tongue and the Marquis was off, galloping towards the main gate so that he could join the remainder of the war party. Those who remained were glad that the luncheon had been nearly over, as their appetites had thusly soured.

“Rigsy, I know you and Jen enjoy living in your cottage outside the city walls, but pack your things and move into the castle for the time being,” the Marchioness said. “Take only what is necessary, though make it seem as though you shall merely be keeping us company while His Lordship is away.”

“What about the others who live outside the city walls?” he asked. “When will we give them warning?”

“When we know there is a warning to give—I need you here ahead of time so that we can concentrate on matters at-hand if there is truly reason to worry.” She shooed him away, leaving the two women to walk back to the castle alone.

“That boy of ours better not let the Daleks get very far if he lets them get in at all,” the Serdaressa frowned.

“Don’t worry, Amelia,” the Marchioness said, “Our Johan is more than competent when it comes to dealing with a bunch of quickly-dispatched Daleks.” They went into the castle and up into the family’s private wing, sending away all the servants as they went into the office to bring out varying maps of the borderlands. “Have you ever been to the front?”

“More than a few times; none were pleasant experiences,” the Serdaressa said. She took a lacquered wooden box from a shelf and opened it up, bringing out a miniature blue-stone replica of the building they were in and placing it atop the map. “We need to make certain there are plans in place to bring in the small and middling folk from the hills. Where will we put them?”

“We have ballrooms enough; families with children and the infirm can stay in them whilst others can camp on the grounds,” the Marchioness said. She began setting up figurines representing Daleki and Cyberan soldiers, placing them in known positions on the edges of the march’s borders. “If we can hold as many people as we do during the Violet Sky, then we can hold them now. The trick is going to be making it so Cybera does not think now is the opportune time to strike.”

“Johan was right: you do sound like a Doctor,” the Serdaressa smirked. The Marchioness paused, her face flushing red. “How did he get so mad about you?”

“It was an accident, but one that I would make time and again,” she admitted. “I guess we need to brace ourselves for his arrogant, over-dramatic, idiot children, won’t we?”

“Are you…?”

“No, though I do not doubt that they shall happen once we get to that step.” The Marchioness cleared her throat and closed the box, having placed all the figurines she could. “Less talk of that for the time being, Grandmamma; right now, we need to figure out our evacuation routes.”

The pair talked battle stratagem and civilian safety measures until Rigsy reappeared, his wife and daughter at his side. Once it was certain that the family was settled comfortably into their chambers, work truly began, as there was much to prepare for in case of what they feared.

* * *

The Marquis had been gone for nine days and his lack of presence was being felt throughout Gallifrey. A few had gotten letters from the front from loved ones describing the pummeling the Border Forces were enduring, news of which spread rapidly. The Marchioness received word from her husband as well, words which allowed her to act with more confidence than she had previous.

“His Lordship has written from the front lines,” she announced from the castle gate, standing on a parapet. The crowd below her was large and anxious, and she sympathized more than they knew. “He has said _‘If this letter reaches you before another, then we are safe for now. There may be more Daleki soldiers than anyone alive has seen, yet they are also finite in number. Do not worry unnecessarily, for it shall only unnerve the people, and they do not deserve to be in such a state.’_”

She folded the letter up and slipped it in a pocket. Not all his words were appropriate for the people to hear; in fact, there were entire passages of private niceties and vulgarity, meant only for her eyes as they both yearned in anticipation for his return. War was an excellent re-evaluator of priorities, and the Marquis knew he had no more time to waste. He would return hungry, and she would be just as ravenous, and that would be the end of their dancing around their attraction for one another.

After finishing her reassurance, the Marchioness descended from the wall and made her way back into the castle. Soldiers and guards were prepping for the worst, with smaller halls being used as classrooms for explaining procedure concerning protecting civilians at all costs. There were already people from the hills pitching tents on the lawn, who hailed from lands closer to the border than Gallifrey, and the general sense of urgency was by all means alive and well. She went into the private wing and to the office, where she found Jen—Rigsy’s wife—looking intensely worried as she talked with the Serdaressa. The two women looked at her, glad for her arrival.

“What happened?” the Marchioness asked. “Did you get new news from the front?”

“No; I can’t find Kester,” Jen frowned, bouncing Lucy on her hip. “I was just telling Lady Amelia that he said he was going to the kitchens to get Lucy a snack and he hasn’t returned. That was well over an hour ago. He doesn’t do this, milady. I’m getting worried.”

“Stay with Lady Amelia and I’ll go look for him,” the Marchioness said. “I know these corridors better than you do and it will likely be quicker. Chances are he was pulled aside for march business and has yet to even see the cook.”

“You’d be surprised how often Clara and Johan are sidetracked on a daily basis,” the Serdaressa said, rolling her eyes. “Sometimes it is a miracle I can even get them to attend lunch, let alone dinner, and that was _before_ they grew love-struck.”

“Ha, ha; I’ll be right back,” the Marchioness deadpanned. After tickling Lucy in her side, she left and went to find Rigsy. She checked the kitchens, the offices, the garrison, amongst the multitude of soldiers, and even peered out the window overlooking the temporary encampment.

He was nowhere, and it puzzled her.

“Rigsy…?” she called out, wandering the corridors. She stepped inside seldom-used rooms, becoming increasingly more worried as time went on. Her friend had vanished on the precipice of potential war and to say it was unnerving was an understatement of vast proportions. “Rigsy? Where are you…?”

“Clara!”

The Marchioness tensed at the sound of her name, instantly knowing that not all was well. Rigsy was one of her closest friends, that was true, yet he never addressed her by only her first name. It was a sign that something was amiss, that he needed her help.

“Rigsy! Hold on!”

She ran down the corridor as her mind wondered who or what could have done this. Were there Daleks in the city, slipped in under their noses? She ran into the room at the end of the corridor, only to find her friend bound to a chair whilst a soldier she had never seen before was tying a gag around his head.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the Marchioness snapped, completely outraged. She went to the middle of the room, close to where the soldier was containing her friend and counsel. “What crimes has Riggins committed that require him to be treated in such a manner?!”

“None—he is merely an accidental accessory to be silenced.”

The Marchioness turned and saw Ashildr leaning against the wall, her face a stony mask. Her raven sat upon the rim of a heavy vase, fluffing its feathers as it preened itself.

“Ashildr…? Why are you not at the front? Where is Johan?”

“I am not at the front because Johan had me stay back at Paternoster, to draw a trap in case Daleki soldiers broke through the front lines.”

The Marchioness’s eyes flitted from side to side, searching for where the secret exits were; Ashildr’s tone was unnervingly pleasant. “Then what, may I ask, are you doing here?”

“Drawing a trap of a different sort.”

She snapped her fingers and a dark cloth went over the Marchioness’s head, blinding her as she was grabbed by unseen hands and bound in rope. Strong arms picked her up and carried her away, the only words spoken being those of Ashildr, sending further chills down the Marchioness’s spine.

“Soon, and the pretenders shall be no more.”

* * *

Standing alone, leaning on the pommel of his sword, the Marquis surveyed the damage and destruction that lay before him. Bodies of soldiers—Kasterborsian and Daleki both—and their mounts were littered everywhere. The ground was uneven from explosions and the remains of tents were scattered haphazardly. Even he was the image of a battered military leader: his dark blue cape was torn with bits of the red lining poking out, his jacket seemed to no longer fit him due to torn seams and popped buttons, and his hair, which had already been on the longer side when he left Gallifrey, was now wild and untamed as he had less time for grooming than the scant amount he allowed himself before. He was a mess, though it was proof that he did more than simply command from a distance as others might in his position. His position of Doctor had been earned, after all, and none within the camp could refute that.

“Tea, your lordship?” He glanced to the side and saw a member of kitchen staff, holding out a steaming mug for him to take.

“Thank you,” he croaked out, voice almost completely gone. Upon hearing him speak, the staff member put a considerable amount of honey in the tea as well, stirring it in to help his throat. He took it and held it up in a silent regard, a toast and additional thanks for the kindness.

Knowing that there was no Dalek to disrupt him now, the Marquis found himself a box on which to sit. He placed his sword down and crouched as he sat, cold and weary. A sip of tea and he realized just how chilled he was and he pulled the remnants of his cloak tighter with his free hand. He was tired and worn and knew that he had just barely made it through by the virtues of luck and sheer quick-thinking cleverness. It was beyond measure, his pain, as he saw the soldiers around him picking up the pieces of what remained after two weeks of war, for when it was one’s true duty to lead and help and protect, any sign of failure hurt.

“We have word from the scouts, milord,” a soldier announced as he stepped into view. The Marquis hadn’t even seen him approach, instead having lost his gaze over the desolate views around him. He glanced up and saw the soldier salute, which irritated him.

“What is it then?” he frowned.

“All Daleki commanders have either fully retreated towards Skaro or have ended their own lives along the way,” the soldier reported. “The borderlands are once again safe.”

“Our losses were not in vain then,” the Marquis nodded solemnly. He stood and took another sip of tea, grateful for the warmth it provided. “Have my commanders meet me at my tent—I shall clean up and make certain everything is being cared for, then I shall return to Gallifrey and see to her.”

“See to _Gallifrey_, milord…?”

“…yes, of course,” he replied. He knew there was more meaning to it than that, yet that was not important… moving onward was.

The soldier left and the Marquis wandered his way through the camp before finding his new tent. His previous one had been set on fire, making the current one only a few hours old. There were different rugs along the floor and the table seemed scorched, yet everything from before seemed to have been saved. He searched for new clothes in his small travelling trunk—nothing aside from more beaten war finery and battle-worn blacks. It would have sufficed in a previous time, yet now it was unacceptable. The very thought of his wife seeing him in worn-out blacks again made him uneasy; thinking of her in the moments alone he was allowed since arriving was what fueled him, and to imagine her face when she would see the blacks… he had been tamed, and he was glad for it.

Shrugging out of his cape and jacket, he simply washed dried blood from his face and hands and shaved the stubble from his face, pulling the garments back on by the time his commanders came to solidify their orders. He made certain they were able to handle the mess he was about to leave behind, including the newly-promoted captain who had merely been a second-lieutenant the month before, and joined the lethargic, weary convoy that was making its way back to the City of Gallifrey. There were plenty of wounded amongst their number—those who could manage themselves and those who could not—and the pace they set seemed to suit him. It was meandering and gentle, allowing two days to cross what normally took an afternoon’s hard ride to cover. Eventually the convoy could see the tall blue monolith that was Castle Gallifrey on the horizon.

They were home.

As the party approached the city and earldom, a sordid air began to settle on and around them. Something was wrong, they all knew, though could not put their fingers on what precisely it was that unnerved them. Even the horses were uneasy, becoming spooked at the slightest sound. They pressed onwards, only to be stopped at the gate by fellow members of the Kasterborsian Border Forces, swords drawn and arrows nocked.

“Let us through this instant,” the Marquis ordered from atop his horse. “We have casualties from the front—they require medical attention a tent cannot provide.”

“We have orders to escort you to the governance hall,” a soldier said plainly. Tersely. In a manner that unnerved the Marquis.

“Who’s orders?”

“Orders.”

Glancing around to see if he could glean any information, the Marquis decided it was safer to go along for the time being, so as to get to the bottom of the mystery. “Have the rest of the party brought to the hospital, immediately, and I shall go with you willingly.”

The guards parted, with four attaching themselves to the Marquis as sentries whilst the remainder helped bring the rest of the battered soldiers towards the large stone-and-plaster building that served as the hospital. Streets were nearly empty as they rode through the city, despite the midday hour, and the silence that bore down upon them was nearly deafening. When there would be a glance from one of the few small and middling folk milling about, there were looks of worry, of shame, of uncertainty. They were not people gazing upon their liege lord, and were instead people wondering if it would be the last time they would ever see him alive.

What in the names of the stars was happening?

After leaving his horse in the stables, the Marquis was escorted through his own home into the governance hall, where he found a confusing sight. There, upon the dais, was Ashildr sitting in his chair, one leg swung up onto the armrest whilst the other tapped on the floor as she lounged, reading a book. The hairs on the Marquis’s neck stood on-end—this was the furthest thing from good.

“Ashildr, what are you doing?” he asked authoritatively. “Where is Her Ladyship?”

“I _am_ Her Ladyship,” she replied dully.

“You know precisely who it is I am referring to; where is my wife?”

“Your wife is safely tucked away where she belongs, which is _not here_.” She closed her book and placed it in the bag on the floor before turning to face him. “My quarrel is not with her—she is merely an accidental and temporary complication—but it is with you.”

“I do not understand,” the Marquis said, furrowing his brow. “I was unaware of any disagreement between us, none that would facilitate the need to put a guard on me in my own home.”

“That’s the problem: this was never _your_ home,” she explained. “This should have been _my grandfather’s home_, where he could have raised his granddaughter to be the magnificent marchioness he always said she was destined to become, yet it was not. Instead it went to his brother, who cruelly threw him out, and had issue that prevented his return. _My_ grandfather died unable to look once more upon the blue stone of his childhood home, because **_your_** father and grandfather both forbade it. I am your elder, therefore I should sit in this seat.”

“The way you speak makes it sound as though you are the issue of my murderous great-uncle—the last my father heard, he and all his family died near forty years ago at sea. There were bodies buried in the capitol.”

“My parents and my grandmother were buried, yes, but not Grandfather, and certainly not the line of _me_.” Ashildr stood and squared her shoulders, attempting to be as tall as her diminutive frame could manage. “I am Lady Ashildr Valkyrie Me, granddaughter to Lord Faolan Yancy, great-granddaughter to the Ninth Doctor Johan Claud, and the true heir to the governance chair of Kasterborous and Gallifrey. Agree to your resignation and I shall be kind. That is what you prefer, correct? Kindness? Mercy? It is more than you deserve.”

“If you are truly my cousin, then why act now?” he wondered. His lord’s mask was firm and resolute, though underneath he was panicking greatly. Never did he think he had family other than his wife and mother-in-law, and now he had a relation attempting to usurp his birthright as her own. “You have been in service to the march and earldom for years with little complaint and no hint as to this nature—the timing is odd.”

“I realized that now was the time to act, before there is also a child in my way, and children do influence the people so,” she said. “Do not deny that you have fallen in love with your wife, that you took extra risks on the front to end your time away early, all because you missed her. You were to die a mournful sap in war, and I would challenge Clara for this chair, and being the only remaining descendant of the Ninth Doctor, I would win it with ease. Now…” she scoffed, “instead you are a besotted fool, and it is only a matter of time before besotted fools put babies in their wives’ bellies. Give up this chair and leave the march and I shall gladly hand over your wife so that you can keep her as large as you desire, but only within Blackpoole’s landholdings.”

“She was promised Kasterborous and Gallifrey, and so she shall have them.”

“Do not promise that what is not yours to give.”

“Except it _is_ _mine_, and hers, and shall be passed on to any child we have,” he replied icily. “I’m disappointed in you, Ashildr; you were one of the last people I would expect to act like this, even if you were fed whatever lies Faolan deemed fit to groom you to do this.” The Marquis fluffed his wine-red cape and allowed it to fall limp around him as he held his hands behind his back. “You were one of my most loyal and valued retainers—the King himself had even asked to borrow you on more than one occasion and I refused, on the simple fact I wanted you doing good here instead—and yet this is how you repay me?”

“I have been cleaning up your messes for far too long, _Doctor_,” she sneered. “You are not suited to your position and never shall be. You put so much hope and faith inside people’s hearts, only to leave them to their own devices before they are ready. They are left wondering if it was merely a dream, or in actuality a nightmare. They do not love you; instead they fear you and your name. I owe you nothing.”

“This is the first I have heard such words,” he stated. “Have you been keeping more secrets from me than just a shared great-grandfather?”

“I never told you because you are a poor listener—why would you be anything otherwise though? The Most Noble and Potent Prince of Kasterborous and Gallifrey does not take heed from anyone but himself, for that is what is required of him. You might do your duty, yet the rest of us simply have to live in the chaos that is left in your wake.”

“Had I known there was chaos, I would have quelled it,” he claimed. “You have kept my people’s concerns from me, Ashildr, and now you aim to make everyone believe that you would do better in my job than I ever could.”

“It’s not a stretch of the imagination.”

“Sometimes the only choices you have are bad ones, but you still have to choose. Are you ready to take on that sort of responsibility? That sort of pain? That sort of horror? How will you carry that, I wonder, if you don’t now understand the weight that shall be on your shoulders?”

“It is a weight I already bear.”

“Do you though?” The air tensed around them so intently that it nearly snapped then and there. “Has the search for a ‘good option’ clouded your judgement and warped your priorities? Can you even recognize when there is one before you or not? You’ve played me the scapegoat this entire time—what shall happen when you put on the cloak you plan to make of my hide?”

“Prove you were merely that—a creature worth forgetting.”

Not about to dignify such a claim, the Marquis huffed in irritation as he narrowed his eyes in an intense glare. “Where is my wife? The one you have so conveniently hidden away? My mother-in-law? The advisor I hope is still on my side? I wish to hear from them and know they are well.”

“Rigsy and his family are locked in their rooms—I thought it more comfortable than the dungeons at any rate. As for Clara and Amelia, they have been a pain in my men’s sides long enough…” Ashildr snapped her fingers and two guards emerged from behind a screen, each leading along a bound and gagged prisoner. They let them go and the Marchioness and Serdaressa were easily able to break free, their immobilization mainly facilitated by the guards’ grips on the ropes binding them.

“Johan!” the Marchioness shouted soon as she pulled the kerchief from her mouth. She and the Serdaressa both ran up to the Marquis, though only the former was brought into a tender kiss. “We were so worried that something had happened to you on the road.”

“Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara; I am home now and that’s what matters,” he replied, pulling her close. He accepted a hug from the Serdaressa as well, though all it did was to allow him to glare over their shoulders at the usurper. “Now the question is: how do I get this creature out of our house?”

“I have some ideas,” the Serdaressa growled, turning back around to face Ashildr. The Marquis placed his hand on her shoulder, gently keeping her from storming off.

“That makes it sound like you were naughty while I was gone, Mama.”

“If you were gone half a day longer, Clara and I would have broken free and thrown this _child_ out on her rear,” she claimed.

“There was never a doubt,” the Marquis said. He stepped in front of his wife and mother-in-law, putting himself between them and the woman before them. “The question still remains, however: how do I get you to step down? What do you want so that you will leave and let my family be? Money? A formal title? Familial recognition? An apology for a quarrel between our forefathers?”

“I want your chair, position, title, money, lands; _I want it all_, because I will use it much better than you ever could.”

“What did you promise these people?” the Marquis asked, motioning around the room. “I see around me men and women who have served the march loyally for many years—over a thousand years between them—and yet we’re here. _You_ not only withheld their potential grievances from me, but you promised them something, claiming it was what I could not give. Not only that, but you took advantage of a near-invasion to attempt this coup, striking while I was away doing my lord’s duty—my duty to not only my King, but to Kasterborous and Gallifrey and all the people in them—to help fortify the border. Are there not farmers on the grounds who are able to return to their homes now that the Dalek invasion is no longer a threat? I contributed to that. What did you do? _You_ were supposed to be in Paternoster setting up the next line of defense!”

“The Paternosters are always in excellent form—I glanced on my way back, and they were solidly protected,” Ashildr said.

“You could tell that by a _glance_? Were you too busy with your greedy plot to stop and _ask_ to make certain things were as they seemed?”

“I…”

“Don’t you try to argue with me,” he snapped. “I might be a dangerous force, but I am bound to my duty all the same. There are rules for me to live by for a reason, and I am convinced that you do not want to know why they were put in place. I might be a madman or an idiot or whatever the people call me, but I go around, helping out the best I can, because _that’s what I’m meant_ _to do_. Are you entirely certain you want to strip me of that? My duty? My livelihood? My rules? Because I highly doubt you want to be in that position.”

“…and we never shall,” Ashildr said. She began muttering lowly in the ceremonial tongue, golden dust beginning to appear and wrap itself around her. Out from the rafters came her raven as it sat on her shoulder, becoming a swirling mess of dust itself.

“Stars, it’s magic,” the Marquis cursed. “Everyone get out of here! She could take out the whole hall!”

That sent everyone into a panic, with people rushing towards the doors. Ashildr’s raven grew in size and took flight, swooping around the room as it prepared for its purpose. The Marquis stopped attempting to herd people out and turned to face his cousin.

“I am the Oncoming Storm; I am the bogeyman Davros warns his children about in the night; I am the man who can stop an entire Cyberan platoon from deploying by my very presence; I am Johan Lonan, rightful Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey; I am the Doctor; and I am the man that makes the monsters go away,” he declared loudly. “Give me your worst!” The raven shrieked and dove straight towards him.

“JOHAN!”

In an instant, the raven was not upon him as he expected, but had slammed into the Marchioness, who had stepped between them at the last moment. The spell burst into light and stardust, enveloping her as she was hit squarely in the chest. She crumpled to the floor and lay still, a sharp hush falling upon the hall. The Marquis was wide-eyed as he wrapped her in his cape in a flourish, putting his back to Ashildr as he gingerly lifted her head from the floor.

“Is she…?” the Serdaressa wondered, coming to the Marchioness’s other side. She saw her son-in-law’s face was twitching faintly as he was attempting to process what was before them. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she found his attention, though he was still spiraling deeper and deeper into a state.

“Not again…” he croaked. “I can’t again…”

“My sweet boy… my son…” The Serdaressa stroked his hair as her heart broke for him. “I’m sorry.”

“This is not how it was supposed to happen,” Ashildr said atop the dais, her voice thin. “I’m not—”

“_Stop_,” the Marquis growled. He gently passed his wife to the Serdaressa and stood, spinning sharply to glare at his newfound cousin and stomped up towards her with his cape billowing and eyes rimmed in red. “You are going to find out that the march and _kingdom_ are very small places when I’m angry with you. Two hours, and you know that’s generous. Leave. _Now_.”

Ashildr quickly glanced around, attempting to judge the room’s reaction. The soldiers, once staunch and unmoving, were now standing at-ease, troubled thoughts spread across their faces. She slid from the governance chair and made her way out quickly as possible—there was no way she would have been able to come back from this. The Marquis stood atop the dais all fury and vengeance, his scowl penetrating every corner of the hall.

“If anyone wishes to join her, so be it, but remember: my mercy can only be spread so thin before it vanishes, for I am only a man.” As he waited, three soldiers left, dropping their pikes on the way out, breaking into a run soon as they reached the door. Most of the lesser lords and serdars began to awkwardly filter back into the governance hall, watching to see what was to happen.

It was done.

With the threat of Ashildr gone, the Marquis returned to his wife’s side, taking her in his arms again. He cradled her against his chest, surprised by her warmth. Errant tears fell from his eyes into her hair and his arms began to shake.

“She’s still breathing,” the Serdaressa said. “The spell was likely one to kill, but she’s still alive.”

“We need to find someone adept at the ancient magic if we wish to save her,” he insisted. “Karn?”

“If we must,” the Serdaressa said. “I’ll send Rigsy right away.”

“No, he's been through enough today,” the Marquis insisted. “Clara would want him to stay with his family. Get a courier, a trusted one, one that is loyal to the governance chair instead of a person, and have them go.”

“Yes.” The Serdaressa took her son’s face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead before running off. A guardsman approached him after, his expression nearly sheepish.

“Milord?”

“What?”

“Might I suggest moving Her Ladyship to your chambers while we await news from Karn? I can put a tail on Valka to make certain she leaves the march properly, and ensure those loyal to her go as well.”

“…yes. That sounds like an excellent plan.” The Marquis took his wife in his arms and lifted her up, bringing her past the throng of onlookers and through the castle to the private wing into her bedchamber. He laid her down gently, barely even noticing the team of maids that were already milling about in an effort to prepare for a long nightly vigil.

“Let us care for her, milord,” the senior-most maid urged gently. “You just returned from the front—rest so that we do not have to care for you both.”

“My place is here,” he replied. With his answer remaining firm, the Marquis waited until a chair was placed at the Marchioness’s bedside and he sat, silent and still. The maids worked around him, making certain that their lady was in a clean nightdress and sat up in bed, whilst there was food and drink not only for her when she woke, but for their lord whenever he wished. All the while he remained unmoved, eyes fixated on her.

The Serdaressa tried to get him to eat more than a few bites to no avail. Rigsy attempted to distract him with matters of the march and earldom that needed attending to with no luck. Even young Lucy crawled into the sad man’s lap and curled into him for attention, only for one hand to hold her gently whilst the other idly petted her hair. He kept his vigil firmly, leaving for but a few minutes out of every day, using the remaining time to feed his wife gentle spoons of broth and alternate between sitting in the chair and laying at her side.

Days passed and the Marquis began to whither alongside his wife; the Marchioness was beginning to die.

* * *

People were in the room—people who were not his wife, the Marquis noted. He tolerated people for the most part, as it was mostly maids doing their jobs and his mother guilting him into having tea. There had even been Viscount Blackpoole, unable to say much, accompanied by a man and woman the Marquis had never seen before, saying they came as soon as they had heard. He did not pay attention, truth be told. All he wanted was the Marchioness back, which made him more than interested when the courier finally arrived from the mountains.

“We need more time than what we have,” the Sister of Karn frowned as she looked over the Marchioness. There were less people in the room this time, with only her, her assistant, and their liege lord and lady. “She is too frail; the spell is powerful blood magic, even if she was not the intended recipient.”

“If it is truly blood magic, should I summon the caster back to undo her mess?”

“No—it will do no good—she would need to be nursed back to health before we could begin experimenting with our spells and elixirs, as our magic is nowhere near as subtle as the spell that had been cast,” the Sister explained. “Valka was taught by a true master of the Old Ways—we cannot directly compete with that unless our methods are heavy-handed, nor was she likely taught how to undo her own messes.”

“Why would she, if her purpose was meant to kill me?” he posed. He moved a stray hair from her face, smoothing it down tenderly. “How long does she have?”

“A few days, at the most,” the Sister estimated. “You kept her alive longer than we thought with the broths, though her body should give out soon.” She saw the lost look upon the lord’s face and frowned. “Do you understand, milord?”

“I understand I am soon to be twice widowed against all that is right in the world,” he said. “I knew I could still be the one to lay her in the earth should I commit to our marriage, though it should have been after we were both old and grey; I did not imagine it would come so soon.”

“Life is full of surprises; in fact, some would say that life is just that… a surprise.”

“Then maybe I do not care for surprises.”

“Only certain ones, milord.”

The Sisters finished up their observations and imparted instructions on how to keep the Marchioness comfortable until her life finally expired. They gave the Marquis privacy as they left, only the forlorn lord and the fading lady remaining in the room. It hurt to look at her—to be reminded of what he nearly attained once again as a second chance—that it was all he could do to not break down into sobs.

Idly, he allowed his gaze to wander around the bedchamber, eventually falling upon the vase sitting atop the nightstand. Ornamental red camellias rested in it, one of which he took out to examine closer. As he looked at the night-red petals, he felt the urge to take another, and another, and another, and soon, he was weaving the stems together. By the time the vase was empty, a crown sat in his hands, which he placed upon the Marchioness’s head. She remained still—of course it would do nothing. There was so little that could be done, all because it… wait a moment…

_Blood magic._

If he recalled his boyhood lessons correctly, then blood magic was one of the most enigmatic and powerful things in the entire world. It had been a major reason why the northern arts fell out of fashion to begin with, as it established tensions that escalated into irreparable feuds between people who had no stake in the original quarrel and wished to remain neutral, causing difficulty in Kasterborous and the capitol both. Things had been a mess to rectify, bringing the magic of the Ancient Gallifreyans towards the hushed near-taboo it became. He thought about it, wondering…

“_Lady Clara Oswald of Blackpoole, Marchioness of Kasterborous and Gallifrey_,” he muttered in the ceremonial tongue, taking her hand in his, “_as cousin and kin of the one who put this spell on you, I release you from your punishment. My blood’s quarrel is not with you. In fact, I… I…_” He choked on his words, unable to continue further without stumbling towards sobs. Holding her chilled hand to his lips, he kissed her fingers as tears fell from his shut eyes, silently attempting to draw strength from her.

He was so enveloped in his grief, however, that he did not open his eyes to see the swirling golden dust winding its way between the two, nor that when it settled, the fingers he had just been holding began to comb through his hair tenderly.

“Johan, you silly thing.”

His hearts skipped beats and he gasped, sitting up to see that the Marchioness’s eyes were open. She gazed at him longingly, despite the fact she remained sickly by all other appearances.

“Am I dreaming…?” he breathed.

“If you are, than I am as well,” she chuckled, her voice sore from lack of use. “The last thing I remember, Ashildr’s raven turned into a spell that attacked you…”

“…because that is what happened,” he confirmed. “Clara, I thought I lost you—that was a spell meant to kill me.”

“Then why am I alive?”

“You were not the intended target, so it worked differently on you. We have barely been able to keep you alive all this time… and I…” He leaned forward and kissed her lips gently, keeping himself from leaning atop her weak frame. Pressing their foreheads together afterwards, he swallowed hard as he attempted to keep himself from shedding a different sort of tears. “You are the moon in my blood-night sky, Clara Oswald, which keeps my way safely lit at night. With you nearly dead, it seemed as though I would be thrown into true darkness.”

“As if I could simply leave you alone without so much as an extra torch to keep away the bogeymen,” she smirked. “You cannot even choose your clothes without consulting me.”

“Only because you have made it so,” he weakly chuckled. He was further cut off by a grumbling of her stomach, at which she began to turn red. “You have not eaten in near three days—let me get you something.” He went over to the tray left on the table and brought it to her, placing it on his lap as he sat on the edge of the mattress.

“Three days? It feels more like three _weeks_.”

“It could have been years or hours; I do not know,” he admitted. He broke a bit of bread off the loaf and handed it to his wife, though took it back when he saw how shaky her hand was and decided to feed her himself. She glared at him in irritation, though accepted the offer of bread all the same. “Don’t eat too quickly, or you might get sick.”

“I know.”

“I will be there for you, and remain at your side until the end of your days.”

“I know.” She then scrunched up her nose in thought. “Johan…?”

“Yes?”

“What is on my hair?”

“…oh, that.” He blushed as he took the camellias off her head and placed the crown upon his own to show her. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she smirked. She allowed him to replace it and they giggled, cut off by the sound of the door opening and someone else walking into the room.

“Clara!” the Serdaressa gasped. She held her hands over her mouth and attempted to not cry. Going up to her, she stared at the younger woman in near-shock, sitting down on the bedside chair.

“Good morning, Mama,” she replied. “How long ago did we last see each other?”

“Three weeks,” the Serdaressa confirmed. “It has been so bleak that your stepmother has been summoned to see you.”

“Then she shall see me having survived death itself,” the Marchioness said with a grin. “It will take more than a false raven to stop me.”

“…and I’m glad for it, glad for you both.” The Serdaressa held one of Clara’s hand in hers, the other going to the Marquis’s. “We can finally move forward as a family.”

“Yes,” the Marquis agreed. “Finally we are a family.”

* * *

Word soon spread about the Marchioness’s recovery, giving most in Kasterborous and Gallifrey reason to raise a pint or cup in celebration. They were in no mood for a succession crisis so soon after the prior one had ended, which made the collective breath of relief all the stronger. Highborn quarrels were best solved quickly, and the speed at which this particular one arose and vanished was nearly assuring, in its own way, as it meant that there had been genuinely nothing to fret over.

Within a few days, the Marchioness began to take guests—her father, her former paramour, her remaining advisor and his daughter—and a full week passed before she felt well enough to attend court, helped through the castle by her husband. The Marquis fussed over her and ended court early so as to attend to her welfare, despite the fact she insisted as to otherwise. Irises and lavender littered her chambers as she continued to recover, reminding her of the dizzying dedication of the man who before would not share a bed aside from pretenses, yet now slept nestled in her bosom, arms wrapped around one another as though to never let go again.

Months passed and the Violet Sky arrived, and with it news of an even happier sort. The Marchioness was with child, to be born in the late Spring, to solidify the line that was nearly snuffed out. In the meantime, to little surprise, the Marquis also announced his wife’s creation as Doctor, as she was truly his other half and deserved the title even more than he. She was made Doctor during the thaw, when she was large from showing child, reciting the folk title’s vows before taking her seat on the newly-widened governance chair, meant to accommodate the Dual Doctors with ease.

Nearly a year to the day from the near-coup was foiled and the Doctors’ daughter was born. The Marchioness’s pains first came during a storm, and she was able to cradle the newborn as gentler rain replaced it. There was little more beautiful than the babe in her arms as the child wriggled and suckled and protested her new environment. The child’s father walked in and suddenly the mother knew what was just as precious, just as loved, just as cared for in the entire castle. She and the Marquis kissed lightly, both exhausted from different combinations of worried and worn, and basked in the relief that was now upon them.

As their child grew, siblings came, and the Doctors remained devoted towards one another. They endured beyond their daughter’s creation as Marchioness in her own right and well into old age, lasting longer than any would have thought possible before their marriage. A Doctors’ Love, it was said, was an accidental love, though one that would last through the ages, worth more than could be fathomed. The story of their courtship and love lasted beyond either of them, inspiring others as long as their story was told.


End file.
